Thirty Years Later
by brokenbottleaurora
Summary: Thirty years on, Harry Potter is Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and has enough paperwork to last him for weeks. His wife, however, isn't willing to wait that long. 100% pure Harmony fluff. H/Hr and implied R/L.


**Disclaimer: If the Potterverse was mine, things would have gone very differently. That said, many thanks to JK Rowling for letting us play in the world she created. It's one hell of a sandbox.**

Harry Potter ran a hand through his messy salt-and-pepper hair and let out a sigh. He'd hoped that, after he killed Voldemort, the dark lords of the world would just give up, but in thirty years, none of them seemed to have gotten the memo. The net result was that he was drowning in paperwork yet again.

He hunched over his desk, the flickering light of the lamp spilling over the reams of reports stacked there. Trying to track the evolution of evil wizards across the globe was requiring a lot more parchment than he had anticipated. Per his intelligence, Mano de Fuego down in Spain was rapidly losing followers after a failed attempt at torching a muggle church with Fiend Fyre. Harry snorted. "Fire Hand"? That was the best name the bastard could come up with? And then he didn't have enough power or intellect to set a fire, even when he could have used a regular Flame Spell? Harry shook his head, thankful that another power-hungry idiot was going the way of the dodo. What really concerned him was a man- or woman- known only as Oppenheimer. They were wreaking small-scale havoc across Russia, but he knew that truly dark wizards rarely stayed small scale. His sources had watched this witch or wizard progress from spreading propaganda to fear-mongering to petty vandalism to now small raids on government facilities. Whoever was behind this movement was smart and experienced, having created a solid foundation to start rallying support, and the Russian Ministry was too corrupt, inefficient, or simply preoccupied by other issues to make any effort to curtail him or her. Harry quickly began penning a missive to his contacts there: Oppenheimer needed to be dealt with swiftly and decisively before their activities reached Voldemort-like proportions.

Finishing his letter, he rose from his desk and walked to the owl perch by the window. Whip, his startlingly black owl, ruffled his feathers slightly in preparation for flight.

"Take this to Minister Bones. As soon as she signs off on it, take it to the Floo Post," Harry instructed the bird. After receiving a less than affectionate nip on the finger at those instructions, the man chuckled. "Nothing against you, Whip. I just need to get this to the Russian Ministry ASAP, and I don't want you to have to make the trip. I know you could do it, but I get the feeling we might need you for important correspondence closer to home," he said, placating his familiar. Somewhat mollified, the bird head-butted the wizard's palm and took off through the open fourth-floor window. He soared out across the Potter Estate, disappearing as he crossed the boundaries of the Fidelius charm.

Harry stood and surveyed his sizable back garden and the land beyond. The expansive lawn, rose garden, and swimming pool looked perfect, thanks to the tender care of Dobby, Winky, and Kreacher. The forest on the northwest corner of the property probably needed to be scoured for undesirable inhabitants, but that would have to wait until Neville and Ron could join him. Harry had tried to do it alone once before, and he still had a scar from where the niffler wouldn't let go of his left wrist. The light of the full moon glinted off the goal posts on the full size Quidditch pitch situated half a mile from the back door. He'd tried to build it directly in the back garden, but his wife wouldn't hear of it. Of course, she won that debate. She won pretty much all of them. Harry sighed. That's what happens when you marry the smartest witch of the age, he supposed.

Harry Potter sat back down at his desk and started his report on the laughable "Fire Hand". He'd finished half of the document when he heard a quiet rap at the door.

"Come in!" he called, not bothering to look over his shoulder. It was probably one of the kids coming to say goodnight. Noting the lamp burning low, he dipped his quill into the ink well and-

The smell of lavender and sandalwood washed over him. Harry turned to see his wife standing in the doorway to his home office and promptly lost the ability to speak.

The light of the hallway beyond backlit her soft silhouette. At twenty, it had been trim and fit, somehow still curvy in what he thought were all the right places. After twenty-eight years and three children together, he could admit that it had changed a bit. Her hips and tummy were a bit rounder, and she always complained that her thighs and arms hadn't gone back to their pre-baby size. He, however, loved her softness, and he would never begrudge her those reminders that she loved him enough to carry his children. She had managed to tame her hair a bit in the past three decades, but after long days like this one, it still tended to get huge and frizzy. Harry had always appreciated her wild hair, and tonight the light from the hallway made her curls shine like polished bronze.

There were, though, some things about her that time couldn't touch. Her eyes still sparkled when she talked about the subjects she was passionate about- full magical equality, equal representation, the merits of a Shrinking Solution vs the charm. She could beat anyone at a debate or a game of Trivial Pursuit, both the muggle and wizarding versions. And she loved with every fiber of her being. It sometimes made her seem bossy or overbearing to others, but Harry knew that she wouldn't worry so much if she didn't care so deeply.

He loved her so much that sometimes it physically hurt. And for some reason he couldn't really understand, she felt the same way about him. It wasn't a perfect relationship. They had their fair share of disagreements and even a few weeklong fights. He missed an anniversary, she burned more than a few birthday cakes, they miscommunicated and looked like fools. But at the end of every day, he inexplicably loved her more.

Harry sat frozen in his desk chair, ogling his wife and thinking, praising Merlin, God, or whatever deity there may be that he'd been lucky enough to marry this incredible woman.

Hermione smoothed out her nightgown (which was really one of his old Quidditch shirts) and smirked. "And here I thought the head of the DMLE was busy. Like what you see, Potter?"

Shaken from his reverie, Harry nodded slowly. With a sly grin of his own, his eyes deliberately roamed the length of her body once, twice, three times. "Mhmm. 'Specially when it's wrapped in _my_ clothes with _my_ name on the back."

Hermione blushed and shifted her weight. "I was just going to let you know that the kids are all asleep. Spending most of the day with Ron and Luna's lot wore them out," she informed him. She reached both hands up to stretch her back, causing the hem of her night shirt to ride dangerously high on her thighs. Harry lost his train of thought. He was pretty sure a small string of drool escaped his lips as his pants quickly became uncomfortably tight.

Noticing her husband's predicament, Hermione's blush turned into a feral grin. She gave a measured look at the piles of parchment that needed his attention. "Well, it's too bad that you have so much work left to do. I was hoping that you might want to take a break and spend a little time together, but I can see that you're clearly too busy," she yawned, stretching again for effect. "I guess I'll just head to bed by myself." She turned slowly and made it two hip-swaying steps into the hallway when she felt a hand grab her wrist and spin her around.

Harry's eyes were nearly black with lust. He licked his lips slowly and drawled, "I guess I could take a small break, for you."

They stood stock still for half a moment. In perfect synchronization, they attacked each other's mouth and stumbled down the hallway to their bedroom, trying to stay quiet. Harry knew that, if they could keep from waking the children, he would be taking a much more than a small break. There would probably be hell to pay in the morning, and it was going to be worth every second.

 **faayahli**

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 **AN** : If you've made it this far, please shoot me a review! I'm still pretty new to writing in general, so any helpful words or constructive criticism are welcome. I also need to send a huge shout out to my fabulous betas, hermionespolyjuice and I Am Definitely Jeff Bridges! I couldn't do this without them.

This post was made possible by AlwaysPadfoot and their Dialogue Wheel [Challenge/Mini-Comp] on the HPFC forum. My prompt was from the Romance wedge: "I guess, I could take a small break, for you."

Thanks for the inspiration!


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